Season of the Sun by Catherine Coulter Page B

never raising her voice even when he screamed at her in his pain and fear and his frustration, for he couldn’t bring her to heel as a man should his wife, and he became more afraid by the day. Lotti played near her feet, stacking trenchers, then counting them in that ugly slurred voice of hers, thenunstacking them. Repeating and repeating until he wanted to yell. But he didn’t; he didn’t have the strength.
    Every once in a while Zarabeth would bend down and caress the little girl’s face, speak to her softly, then smile. Not one of her sweet smiles was ever for him. She was his wife, and yet it meant nothing.
    A vicious cramp made him gasp, and he hobbled from the room, bent over like an old man, holding his belly. Zarabeth looked up, frowning after him. He’d been ill since their wedding two weeks before, and now he looked like an old man, frail and gaunt, and he acted like an old man, querulous and spiteful. At first, she knew, Olav had believed his belly pains simple retribution from too much mead and ale consumed at his wedding feast, but the pain in his stomach had continued, and he suffered greatly from bloody bowels.
    He wasn’t capable of taking her. One night he had ordered her to disrobe in front of him. He’d wanted to see her, to caress her; it was his right as her husband. She hadn’t done it. Zarabeth shook away the memory.
    Keith and Toki came every day, the son to help his father with his goods and Toki to gloat and ridicule, only in Zarabeth’s presence of course, mocking the failing old man and his sweet new bride who hadn’t been bedded, his new bride who wouldn’t breed a babe.
    Zarabeth stirred the soup, mashing the potatoes as she stirred. Olav could eat the soup, and he appeared to enjoy it, even though he cursed under his breath and crabbed and complained. She had asked the ancient old crone Ungarn about Olav’s pain, and she had scratched the flaking skin on her arm and muttered that Zarabeth should give him ground-up garlic and smashed onions mixed together inside a bay leaf. The combination sounded nauseating to Zarabeth, butshe’d done it. Oddly, it had seemed to make him feel a bit better. But no longer did it have any effect.
    She looked up to see Toki saunter into the living area as if she were the mistress. She soon would be, if Olav died, for Zarabeth would have no rights. Surely Olav had willed with the York council to leave all his earthly goods to his son. Zarabeth nodded to Toki, wishing she would simply turn about and leave, and continued her stirring. She felt Lotti move closer to her, leaned down and gave the child a reassuring pat on her head. Lotti had kept her distance from Toki ever since that night so long ago.
    â€œThe old man looks ready for a burial. All he needs is a winding sheet.”
    â€œI think he does a bit better today,” Zarabeth said. “But it is slow and mean, this strange illness he has.”
    Toki shrugged and looked down at the soup Zarabeth was stirring. “More tasteless pap for the old beggar? What a pity you must eat what he does. Your ribs must be knocking hard against your skin.”
    Zarabeth said nothing, merely stared into the soup. She mashed another potato to pulp.
    â€œHe still hasn’t bedded you, has he?”
    The long wooden spoon stilled. Slowly Zarabeth turned to face her new daughter-in-law, a woman several years her senior. “Keep your tongue away from things that are none of your business, Toki. I shan’t tell you again. You will cease your insults of Olav. Without him, as you once told me, you and Keith would starve.”
    Zarabeth turned away, fearing her own anger, ignoring Toki’s soft hiss of anger.
    At times, life was nearly comforting, for it had become so predictable. Zarabeth took care of her husband, endured Toki’s ill-humor and Keith’s constant questions about his father’s health. She thought of Magnus only in the dark of the